Afterwords
by Robert Liguori
Summary: An internal monologue of the protagonist after the Enclave, on one final quest.


My Fallout2 fanfic, after the end.

  
  


Robert smiled to himself. He had no one else to smile at. He remembered his history lessons in Arroyo, learning of the exploits and adventures of the Vault Dweller. Even then, he had been intelligent enough to question the truth behind the tales the Elders told. What finally convinced him that the tales were false was the Final story, the story of the Exile. As a child, he flatly refused to believe that anyone would dare to malign the Vault Dweller. As he aged, the Vault Dweller's mysticism faded somewhat, but Robert still refused to believe that anyone would demand that their savior be exiled. He knew better now.

After he had destroyed the Enclave's oil rig, Robert had enjoyed a year as Elder of New Arroyo. One year, he thought to himself. One year for them to forget. One year before fear of imaginary retribution overwhelmed gratitude. One year before those righteous bastards started talking about "duty." I should have killed them all. 

Now, a week after he packed up the Highwayman and left his home, a week after that interfering politico Smith had managed to get the council to vote for his "temporary relocation, pending an evaluation of the remaining threat to New Arroyo." When he had heard the council's decision, and seen Smith's gloating face, he knew. The stupid brahmin in elder's robes had lined up in fear, and now they would be slaughtered, perhaps more slowly but just as surely as if Smith had cut their throats and drank their blood. Smith was addicted to power, and his capture by the Enclave had shaken him. At times like this, Robert could curse his nigh-genius intellect for telling him facts, when he wanted to avoid all thought. Smith saw you as the only thing more powerful then the Enclave. In his mind, he had to bring you down to prove his superiority. Smith has doomed himself, and doomed Arroyo. No doubt Smith had planned to keep me in communication with Arroyo, and let my voice, weak with whatever distance Smith might impose, fade with time. Now, people will say Smith has forced me away. 

Robert was mildly amused to find, as he drove south, that he no longer cared. Arroyo had rejected him. Even if nothing happens, discontent will grow. Robert knew that when disaster struck, and in the Wasteland, it was only a matter of time before it did, people would say, "The Chosen One could have stopped this." Smith is as doomed as if the Enclave had shot him full of lead. Or energy. Or FEV Mark II.

Robert remembered his battles. He remembered when , armed with twin .44 magnums taken from the corpse of that revolting, child-corrupting thief, and with a schizophrenic, hallucinating, oddly perceptive psychotic with a really big hammer as backup, he had demolished the Slaver's guild in the Den. He remembered the just as gratifying but considerably less violent sealing of the alliance between the Slags and Modoc. His smile darkened as he remembered the genocidal First Citizen Lynette. When I have nothing left to do, I'm coming back for you, Lynette. Robert's mood darkened as he checked his PIPboy's map. He was due west of the spot where a lucky shot from a raider had entered Vic's skull through the left eye, exited through the back of the skull, and left Robert without a handyman. Robert's smile was back in full force a little later. He was remembering New Reno. When he had left New Reno, the Jesus father and son team were beyond hope of even miraculous resurrection, and John Bishop had lost his wife, daughter, plans for politics between NCR and Vault City, and life, in that order. Mason, Mr. Salvatore's right hand man, had been smart enough to avoid letting him speak to his boss, with the net effect of Salvatore dying after his men, as opposed to before. A little detective work and some scouting for old man Wright, combined with some surreptitious sabotage on the side, had firmly entrenched Robert in the Wright family. 

Robert thought of his companions. Sulik had left, taking a suit of combat armor and a super sledge, saying he had wanted to hunt for slavers by himself. Vic had been killed. Cassidy had returned to Vault City to run his bar; he didn't trust anywhere else to have the necessary medical care for his heart. Marcus was still mayor of Broken Hills, and probably would be until the town ran out of uranium. In a rare instance of poetic justice, Myron had gotten knifed by a Jet addict looking for a fix. After consulting the ancient history discs, Robert had determined that Skynet was part of the reason for the War, and dispensed EMP-style justice. Goris, alone now, was wandering aimlessly. With the killers of his pack reduced to radioactive dust, Goris now had little reason to live. However, Robert was pretty sure that what he had in the trunk of the Highwayman would interest Goris. When Robert had invaded the Enclave's base, and persuaded a loosely-hinged scientist to release FEV-II into the air, Robert had remembered to collect some, just in case. Robert had also collected samples from the abandoned military base. Robert remembered a history lesson, in which the Vault Dweller had driven the Master suicidally insane by delivering proof that mutants were sterile. However, Super Mutants were not Deathclaws, and Robert had seen proof that affected Deathclaws were not sterile. Even if Goris somehow could overcome his revulsion at the concept of mating with a wild Deathclaw to preserve his genius, his genes would become watered down past the point of usefulness. That was why Robert had loaded his needle pistol with FEV and FEV-II, and gone caving. That was why Robert had two Deathclaw hatchlings sedated in the trunk of his car. And the reason why Robert was looking for Goris was that the hatchling injected with FEV-II was turning pale, and had lost weight, and had managed to open the trunk of the car and tried to escape. Robert smiled. As far as he was concerned, the human race had had it's chance. Every stupidity from the War to his exile weighed heavily on his mind. I have seen too much, done too much. I have saved a hundred thousand lives, and watched as the owners of those lives had squandered what I had given them. The one tragedy I could not prevent, happened to people, yes, people, that could have made a difference. I will find Goris, and I will tell him what I know. Heh. I'll bet Algernon can retro-fit a needler for a Deathclaw's grip. 

Robert drove into the darkness. This time, there will be no War, probably no wars. No slavers, no organized crime families, no drugs, no biological or nuclear arsenals. We have had our chance, and we have failed. Robert smiled again. He knew how much FEV he had, combined with the natural selection, would be enough to create a new race of Deathclaw. A smarter, more moral race. As he drove into the darkness, a thought struck him. Damn. If I had let the Enclave disperse the FEV as planned, I wouldn't have any problems. 

Robert drove south, towards the ancient cratered ruin known as the Glow. Humanity had failed, but there was something, someone, a race of someones, left to carry on.


End file.
